FOR CHILDREN. 277

But Kempenfelt is gone;
His victories are o’er ;
And he and his eight hundred
Shall plough the wave no more.
Cowper.

 

LESSONS TO BE DERIVED FROM BIRDS.

Wuart is that, mother ?
The lark, my child !—
The morn has but just looked out, and smiled,
When he starts from his humble grassy nest,
And is up and away with the dew on his breast,
And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure bright sphere,
To warble it out in his Maker’s ear. .
Ever, my child! be thy morn’s first lays
Tuned, like the lark’s, to thy Maker’s praise.

What is that, mother ?
The dove, my son!

And that low, sweet voice, like a widow’s moan,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure by that lonely nest,
As the wave is poured from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one’s quick return.

Ever, my son, be thou like the dove—

In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.

What is that, mother ?
The eagle, boy !
Proudly careering his course of joy,
Firm on his own mountain vigour relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying
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